What Time Is It?

I've wanted to draw a picture of Marceline, the Vampire Queen from television's Adventure Time for a while. She's just such a great character - definitely sympathetic and likable, but always just a little evil. This is obviously quite a rough sketch. I resorted to Google image search only once to find out which hand Marceline strums her guitar with. I'd already blocked out Marceline's pose at that point, so the axe-bass winds up pointing down instead of up. Frankly, I like it that way better.

Poem of the Week

A Girl's Garden

By Robert Frost

A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.

One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, "Why not?"

In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, "Just it."

And he said, "That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm."

It was not enough of a garden
Her father said, to plow;
So she had to work it all by hand,
But she don't mind now.

She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road;
But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load,

And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed.
She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but weed.

A hill each of potatoes,
Radishes, lettuce, peas,
Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees.

And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider-apple
In bearing there today is hers,
Or at least may be.

Her crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.

Now when she sees in the village
How village things go,
Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, "I know!

"It's as when I was a farmer..."
Oh never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale
To the same person twice.

***

Two weeks in a row now I've posted a poem brought to mind by a song... although this week's song is actually just the poem set to music. I think we've all known someone like this - well-read on a subject, maybe, but completely ineffectual when it comes to practical application, yet still completely full of themselves...

Why are y'all looking at me like that?

Adventures in Animation: Where On Earth Is Carmen Sandiego?

When most people think of Carmen Sandiego, they think of the game show. And, you know, why wouldn't you? It was a lot of fun, and it made a cappella music a thing. That's a really tough theme song to compete with.

Well, does anyone remember the cartoon series based on the educational game? Cuz that one had a pretty fun theme, too, although a bit more dramatic and operatic than the finger-snapping fun of the Rockapella jam. I'd almost forgotten that this show existed until I found it on the shelf at the local FYE for only $10. So I thought I'd pick it up and see if I could justify why I watched it so much as a kid.

Where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego hasn't aged particularly well - the animation's a bit shoddy (especially the framing CG sequences), and the writing, at times, is downright awful. Oh, and then there's the chief, whose Max Headroom-style antics can be pretty entertaining for the minute or two before they get real old.

But, you know, I still found myself enjoying this show, mainly on the strength of its other characters. Sibling detectives Zach and Ivy lead the hunt for the master criminal, mostly known for pilfering high-profile artifacts from antiquity simply because she can. Ivy kicks a lot of butt - a strong female lead in a time period not really known for having good female characters. Zach's got a lot of early 90s "radness" in his speech, but he's not overly grating. Ultimately, the duo has to solve most of their problems with their brains rather than their brawn - a refreshing approach to action stories in children's entertainment.

The real draw, of course, is Carmen Sandiego herself. She's barely in most of the episodes, but that's not a bad thing. She's a real mystery, and that's a lot of her appeal. She's cool, confident, and always manages to be a step ahead of just about everyone. Best of all, when she does lose, she tends to lose with a bit of grace and dignity. She's a noble thief - she steals what she can, because she can, and she's in it for the sport. Plus, she's voiced by Rita Moreno. That's pretty cool. We don't get a lot of prominent Latina characters in fiction, and few have the poise and stature of Carmen Sandiego.

I'm actually surprised there's not more Carmen Sandiego nowadays. She's a childhood relic, good only for punchlines in jokes also involving Where's Waldo, and that's just not fair. She got saddled with a children's edutainment show, which maybe leaves a sour taste in some people's mouths, but it's not a bad show at all. And, I'll admit, I always liked the Carmen Sandiego experiences. They proved that education could be fun, if couched in a sufficiently fun narrative. And a cool character like Carmen Sandiego deserves to come back more than a lot of old franchises that keep getting revisited over and over and over.

Just, you know, leave the time-traveling game show out of it. Man, that was not very good.

Project 22: Photographer Noire

You want to know the strangest thing I've ever seen in this sordid business?  You ask a man who's photographed more naked senators in flagrante for the most shocking thing he's ever seen?  If you're here looking for sick thrills, I'll promise you that I'm not going to play along.  I don't do that line of work.  Not anymore.

So at the start of my story, there's this man.  You've seen his type.  He's thin-shouldered.  Slouches.  Sniffs the air like a rat every time he's startled.  Not a stiff bit in his whole body.  He slips me an envelope with an old grey picture and some lunch money.  "I want a photograph," he says.

I think I'm clever.  I flip the picture around.  "You've already got one," I say.  And it's a nice one, too.  Pretty girl, late teens, black hair bobbed like a flapper and a skirt hanging ever-so-nicely above the knee.  Not exactly an under-the-mattress picture, but it's nice enough for a bathroom mirror on a Saturday night.

He shakes his head and says, "Not of her.  I want her daughter."

It feels dirty.  This is the point where I'm about to give the money back.  I slide the envelope back across the desk, but this guy slaps his hand down hard.  I didn't think he had it in him.  "Please" is all he says.  He's sincere - the most pitiful kind of desperate.

"Find someone else."

"I'll pay you twice what's in the envelope when I get the picture I want."

A man can't hold onto his values forever.  I pocket the envelope, pick up the camera, and head for the door.

"They'll be in Central Park during the lunch hour today.  Look for them in the Ramble."

I close the door behind me before I can give it another second thought.

The Ramble's a great place for funny business, but there's little enough of that right now.  I mosey for nearly half an hour before I spot her.  The girl from the photo.  She's got a couple of worry lines from growing up.  But it's unmistakably her.

And there's her daughter.  Bright yellow dress with a white lace trim and these chubby legs that she can't quite bend sticking out the bottom.  She sees some dandelions in the grass and laughs.  Sounds like a string of bells.

I pull out my camera and try to take the picture - subtly, from behind a bush.  I don't know how it happened, but the girl sees me first.  She plucks up a flower, totters over to me, and presents it to me like I shouldn't be ashamed of what I'm doing.

I take the picture anyway.

The girl laughs again, and that catches Mother's attention.  She rises to her feet and walks towards me, angry and afraid all at the same time.  I step back, ready to make my retreat, but she stops.  She looks me over, taking in every unpressed wrinkle of my getup.  She can smell the cigarettes and bourbon, even in the open air.  She looks me in the eye, folds her arms, and nods.  Then she sits back down.  And that's it from her.

A few days later, and the man is back in my office.  I give him one thin envelope.  He gives me two thick ones.  No words are spoken, until:

"Was she happy?"

I don't know which one he's talking about.  "I don't know."

He smiles a bit, showing two rat-like teeth.  "She never did, either."

I never learned the full story, but I'll tell you this right now:  That was the only time anyone ever told the unsolicited truth in my office.

Best, funnest project I've had in a while.

My friend Jeremy pointed me to Nika Harper's "Wordplay," a Geek and Sundry vlog (Tangent: The word "vlog" is probably the only word dumber than "blog"). I checked it out once, didn't think much of it, and then kinda moved on... until it popped up again in my recommended videos on YouTube. The third installment challenged its viewers to write a short (500 word) noir story with the keyword "photographer." I was in a bit of a funk that day over my writing, and I decided that this sounded like a fun project. And I just loved it.

Admittedly, I didn't get the story down to 500 words (I'm hovering around 650), but I'm still quite pleased with the result. I did a bit of research for the story, too, about period photography and Central Park in New York City. And by "did a bit of research," I of course mean "browsed a few Wikipedia articles." Same difference.

There's actually a draft picture on my iPad of what the illustration almost was - a guy hiding in a bush trying to take a photograph of a little girl. I forgot about the sketch, though, and just drew the photograph itself later on. I had the hardest time not making this little girl utterly horrifying - the uncanny valley was just not my friend. So the final result is a picture that walks the very fine line between cute and nightmarish. Given the tone of the story above, though, I think that's a good place to be.

Power Up!

Shazam!

Poem of the Week

Girl-Watching

By Dan Brown

In the years I’ve been at this

(Lots, not to be precise)

You’d think that once or twice

At least I would have seen

Some anomalies. I mean

Some major ones. As in

Not feet but little wheels,

Or crests like cockatiels’.

Where are they keeping the girls

With a chrome exterior,

Or an extra derriere?

Apparently nowhere.

Assuming my sample’s valid,

The pool is limited

To the standard types I’ve tallied;

Such variance as there is

In the usual congeries

Of   physiognomies —

And yet enough of   it

To be worth the looking at.

The walking by, for that,

Of   the same girl over and over

Would be no cross to bear

If   it were that one there.

***

Found this poem a little while on my poetry spinner app. Read it, then listen to this. Then you can thank me for having the rest of a good day, cuz I guarantee you will.

Although whether that will be due to the great song or the absolutely epic white-people-dancing, I can't tell.

Poem of the Week

Dulce et Decorum Est

By Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

***

Chances of you having read this poem in high school are pretty good. What impresses me most about Pwen's poem is the way he decries the supposed "glory" of war without vilifying the soldier. After all, the soldier is just doing what he sees as his duty, and is far more likely to suffer the ill-effects of war than the civilian poet who protests the war or the politician who sends him out to die. Sadly for Owen, he was both a poet and a soldier, and he lost his life in the war.